Pitchfork

Pixies! Do not reunite! Please! Think of all that you have to stay dead for: four legendary albums, ever-strong legions of adoring hero-worshippers, and maybe the single most firmly entrenched reputation in the history of alternative music! Just consider it... it doesn't need to end this way...

But maybe it's no use; without even knowing for certain if the rumors of a supposed reunion will become a reality (the band and label have neither confirmed nor denied our inquiries), it's almost a truism in rock that matters of a band's sterling reputation inexorably descend to the lowest depths of the lowest common denominator. The worst part is that, with his latest misstep in the company of The Catholics, Show Me Your Tears, it's hard to think that lowest common denominator isn't Black Francis himself, sitting at the bottom of the barrel, waiting for the rest of the Pixies to finally arrive (Joey, as a member of The Catholics, would seem to be a shoo-in). It's bad enough that Frank Black can't seem to work hard enough these days to encourage what little confidence his name still instills in the hearts and minds of his few resolute followers; the Pixies shouldn't have to gently follow him into that good night, too.

But there's no need to even bring the Pixies into the picture; the scene presented by reality-as-we-know-it is grim enough. Good ol' fashioned Catholic guilt ought to have set in on Black by now for coasting on the fumes of his reputation in the baffling quest to reach some bland ideal of jangly, Midwestern shit-rock, but no such luck. He's still belting out bar-ballads for the type of bars he and his peer group are old enough to frequent. And there's no end in sight, either; any songwriter of Black's caliber could churn out homogenized roots-riffs and schmaltzy sentiment to last call and beyond. Heed the keen insight he offers on "Horrible Day": "It's a good day/ No, it's a horrible day/ And for the first time in my life I just don't care." In the battle of Frank versus the bar, my money's on the bar, and Frank's is, too, evidently; the next round's on him.

Now, it might be fair to suspect that I'm holding Frank to artistic standards that he never held for himself. First of all, even if that's true, why shouldn't we expect artists (in general) to perform to their demonstrated ability rather than sincerely offering up pieces of the comfortable little rut that they've been apathetically carving out over the past few years? If it was just a question of failing to live up to the Pixies, no one would need a review to predict the obvious, but it's so much worse than that; paling in comparison to the Pixies is expected (and it would be unrealistic to expect otherwise), but Tears isn't even a good Catholics album.

The excellent first half of Pistolero-- particularly the dazzling crescendo of "Western Star"-- is everything that the Catholics can and ought to be: rock as large, expansive, and over-romanticized (like right now) as the western skies hanging over the rural-route honky-tonk dives whose atmosphere they so readily evoke. Considering how little has changed in their dusty, trail-worn aesthetic between then and now, the listless songs on this album don't indicate maturation, or evolution of the band's sound, just lack of interest.

Only "Everything Is New" offers any sort of highlight by (not without some irony) most readily harkening back to some of the pent-up energy and easy melody of earlier Catholics material. It's comparatively slight next to the blustery faux-rockers on Tears, and flatter than the cloying sentiment of the more somber tunes, but that's because it may be the only track that doesn't need to compensate for the simple desire that, in all other cases, just isn't there. The elegance of the melody is superbly understated; it doesn't seem like much at the time, but it does its work like any good pop song, and you may well be humming it long after the final coda. Even if there's little more to recommend, it's better to light a candle than curse the darkness. Still, it's the single, tiny bright spot on all of Show Me Your Tears, almost insignificant in the long twilight of Frank Black & The Catholics, and it's getting pretty dark down at the bottom of the barrel.